


Gone With the Rest of Me

by AlabasterInk



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Angst, Based on a Tumblr Post, Body Dysphoria, Dad!Obi-Wan Kenobi, Darth Vader's Suit is a Medical Abomination, Gen, He'll Be There For His Brother Even Though He's Scared, Hurt/Comfort, Now with added Obi-Wan POV, Obi-Wan and Anakin Hug, Obi-Wan wins most loving parent award, Panic Attacks, Sensory Overload, Time Travel Fix-It, loosingletters' medical trauma time travel au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:01:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25050571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlabasterInk/pseuds/AlabasterInk
Summary: When Darth Vader dies he has the unfortunate luck to wake up in his twenty year old body, which incidentally consists of an extra arm, two extra legs, a lack of burn scarring, functioning lungs, and hair.For all that he'll probably come to appreciate it later, coming to in a healthy body when you haven't felt a gentle touch in twenty-odd years isn't exactly a pleasant experience.Based in loosingletters' Medical Trauma Time Traveling AU
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 146
Kudos: 1315
Collections: Star Wars Fanfiction Discord, favourite fics from a galaxy far far away





	1. Anakin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loosingletters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loosingletters/gifts).
  * Inspired by [desecrate my lungs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25068124) by [loosingletters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loosingletters/pseuds/loosingletters). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So I was having a bit of writer's block with chapter 7 of Men of Power when I started reading loosingletters' Darth Vader Medical Trauma Time Traveling AU and omg, the plot bunnies. It's so incredibly good and exciting! Thus, I had to hop on the bandwagon and write this because his ideas are gold and gave me all the feels. It was so invigorating to write!
> 
> It's definitely an Obi-Wan and Anakin feels type of day, so this is basically Anakin having just jumped back in time involuntarily, and freaking out because this body = does not compute after 20 years of The Suit. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Anakin screams.

He screams because his skin is on fire and his lungs won’t work and there’s a man above him with tears on his cheeks as flames burn the sight from his eyes. He screams because the man has wrinkles and the pain is old and his lightsaber cleaves out a piece of his soul as it cuts the man in half. Satisfaction is agony; a cold pit of apathy, like the loss of a mechanical limb. It should matter, but it doesn’t when he’s long convinced himself the original didn’t either.

Something jostles him. There’s a presence in his head and it doesn’t belong there. It stings like new skin, and aches like a muscle freshly used, and no matter what shields he throws at it, it slips through them all like sand through fingers. It’s dug into Anakin’s mind as if it didn’t burn with all the others, and nothing makes _sense_.

“Stop, stop,” he begs. It’s too deep. Far too deep. It smells of sapir tea and sulfur, home-cooked meals and burning flesh. His voice is a whisper because his throat is scorched and he can’t speak any louder, even though there’s no pain except for the phantom of what was. The presence recedes as if burned and Anakin wants to laugh except he hasn’t laughed in twenty years, and something is _wrong_. Something is so wrong and he just wants the galaxy to stop so he can get off and fix it.

Hands touch him. They’re gentle and pressing and he doesn’t understand because there’s no _pain_. There’s no pain even though he feels it as vividly as lightning dancing across flesh. Each touch stings; the hand on his head is like lava on his scalp. It sets flames to hair he shouldn’t have anymore, each follicle a tendril of unrelenting agony, and he doesn’t even know why he leans into it so desperately.

Someone somewhere is shouting. He thinks he hears his name, but that isn’t right because his name belongs to a dead man and remembering the dead is a fool’s errand. There are questions - he thinks they’re directed at him - and a light in his eyes that is _bright, bright, oh Force, it’s so bright_.

He’s screaming again even though he never actually stopped. White, it’s white. Blinding, horrible white, like the inside of his Qabbrat. Only, it’s not his chamber because he’s laying down and he can’t _breathe_ and the hands are _everywhere_ and - _doctors_.

They’re doctors. A heart monitor beeps its familiar tune and a droid rattles off the confusing diagnostics that make sense only to healers. He’s surrounded by medical equipment, but it’s too busy, too bright to be the droids and nurses he knows. They shout and touch him with hurried hands and worried voices, and it doesn’t make sense because the nurses don’t touch and the droids aren’t gentle and neither are ever worried. This isn’t familiar. He doesn’t want to be here. He can’t be here. This is wrong, so wrong and he needs to get out.

Something crashes behind him and there’s a sound like crumpling metal close to his ear. It’s loud, horribly so, and it doesn’t make sense because there’s no static and his helmet is off and _why is it loud_?

Shouts erupt from the people around him. Metal groans and the table he’s on shudders, and suddenly there are _more_ hands. There are more hands and he hates it. He hates them and he hates their concern and he wants them _off_! A great cry rises up around him from a cacophony of bodies thrown into walls. It splits ear drums that have long melted away, and Anakin cries.

He cries and the table shakes and he doesn’t care if the room collapses around him because at least then there will be silence. Silence and darkness and he’ll know where phantom pain ends and real pain begins. He doesn’t notice as the overhead lights flicker and die. He doesn’t notice as machines warp around him. He shakes on the table as full of agony as he was on that day two decades ago. Arms - weightless and sensitive and foreign - reach to grasp hold of his ears in an effort to block out the world.

It doesn’t work. The world keeps spinning and he spins with it. For the first time he notices the Force’s screams. It’s screaming and shouting and crying, and he doesn’t know if it’s echoing him or he’s echoing it, but it doesn’t matter because he feels like a sun inside and it’s been _so long_. So, so long since he heard it like this. It’s light and bright, but shadows - familiar and terrible - follow in its wake like vornskers hunting a meal. He hates it. He wants to pull away but he _remembers_ this. This feeling of impending implosion within his own power and it _scares_ him. It scares him and he hates that and there’s nothing left to temper it. He can’t temper it; he never could and -

There’s a hand on his head. It’s callused and steady and warm like sunshine on Naboo. Anakin’s forgotten what that felt like. He hungers for it, head tilting like a babe suckling for milk. Desperately, he struggles for more of that warmth, more of that comfort. It’s been _so long_ since he’s felt either and he doesn’t deserve it, but Anakin Skywalker has always been a selfish bastard.

The hand seems to understand as it cups the back of his head and lifts it up. It’s gentle - oh so strangely gentle - as if Anakin will shatter otherwise, and he’s not so foolish anymore as to say that isn’t possible. Another arm carefully wraps around his chest. It freezes him in place because why isn’t it crushing him? Why isn’t it hurting him? He braces himself for the impact of whatever attack this is, but nothing comes.

Instead, there’s a moment of breathless weightlessness before he feels himself settle against a torso. A heartbeat pounds in his ear, loud and clear and scared, but the body is steady, holding him as if he were a child. He’s not. He’s a monster and monster don’t get held like this, but he’s too tired to fight. Everything is too much - too much sound, too much touch, too much sight - and if these are his last moments, well it’s not the worst way to go. He settles, shaking and gasping against the body, burrowing into it like a bygone memory. He thinks there’s something wet on his cheeks, but that’s impossible because he hasn’t been able to cry real tears in decades.

The arms tighten. They hold him steady as the person bends over, encompassing him fully in an embrace that should feel like a trap, but doesn’t. A voice whispers in his ear, choked with an emotion he thinks he should know but can’t remember, urging him on, telling him to do something, but he can’t concentrate. His mind is a mess, like his Master just gouged out a piece of his brain and set it on fire.

He chokes. He chokes and there’s nothing there to help him breathe and _oh Force, where’s his respirator_? His body is suddenly alert, flailing about in the embrace struggling for air. So this is what they’re doing. Clever. Let the monster suffocate. They took his respirator and are suffocating him and he can’t breathe and -

“-kin! Bre-! Ana- you have - breathe!” The person yells. Anakin can feel the rumble against his cheek, but the person doesn’t understand. He _can’t_ breathe. “You have to - in! Ana-in. Breathe. Listen, -me. Anak-. An-! In, one, -wo, thre-. Hold. Out, one, two, -ee. Again. In..” the voice continues, but Anakin doesn’t listen. He can’t. He can’t do it. He can’t breathe. Why don’t they just give him his respirator?

“General!” Another voice, also familiar, shouts nearby and Anakin flinches. The arms tighten reflexively, but the pain he should feel never comes. Instead, a sound like pressurized oxygen enters his space, and everything else ceases to matter. A mask is placed over his mouth, forcing oxygen into his damaged lungs and he feels himself sag back into the stranger’s embrace. He can breathe. Oh Force, he can breathe.

The hand on his head cards through his hair and he doesn’t have the energy to question that. All he cares about is the air. Glorious, glorious air and the sunshine warmth of the stranger. A torso bends just slightly further around him, and he can sense the person’s head as they lean towards him. Bristles, pointed and sharp poke at his sensitive skin, and the sensation of soft fingers against his cheek is almost enough to make him sob. It’s electric. His nerves are fit to explode. Every brush against his skin is like liquid fire, but he welcomes it like the pathetic fool he is. It’s gentle. He’d forgotten what gentle felt like.

The stranger’s touch is enough to calm the Force into a manageable screech, and if he concentrates hard enough he can almost drown out the sound of the doctors scurrying around. Almost. Not quite. But he’s too tired now to bother retaliating. Whatever they want to do to him can’t be worse than what’s already been done.

He focuses instead on the crisp voice of the stranger. They murmur softly into his ringing ears, calm and soothing as if afraid to spook him, and it’s familiar in a way that makes his stomach lurch and his heart break. The bristles tickle his nose and he wants to reach out. Wants to see. But his mask is off and it’s too bright and he’s blind without it.

A thumb wipes something from his face. He can’t tell what it might be but a nail clips against his eyelids, sending a burning sting through his head that forces his eyes open. Funny, he doesn’t know when he’d closed them if they’d ever been open in the first place.

Light from a window greets him. It spears through him like a bolt to the brain and he hears something whimper nearby. The stranger cups his cheek again and Anakin marvels at the way the man’s hair catches fire. Anakin hates fire, but it’s a dull hate. Old, and one he doesn’t have the strength to call upon.

But it’s that hate that gives him time to pause. Because the room is bright but there’s _color_. There’s gold in that fire-hair, and it’s been so long since he’s seen _gold_ he almost can’t believe it. _Gold_. In copper hair, against a pale face and blue-

_Luke_? But no. It’s not Luke.

The face that meets his belongs to a dead man. He tries to reach out but his arms won’t move and he only ends up sending a shudder of phantom pain down the length of his spine. It’s agony and he bites his lip to keep quiet, but the dead-man doesn’t care. The hand leaves his cheek and reaches out to clasp hold of his fingers. It’s feather light, but Anakin feels every callus, every scar, every groove. The nails need cutting, but he welcomes the pins and needles they cause.

He knows this hand. He dreamed of cutting it off for years. He dreamed of it reaching out to him for years. There’s a scar from a repair job gone wrong on the inside of his thumb and a burn from a cooking incident on his forefinger. They should be wrinkled, but they’re not; smooth with youth, and leathery with experience.

Fire-hair dances and he can’t stop staring. He knows that healers are bustling around him - knows that they’re touching him, but they’re meaningless next to the dead-man. The man’s face is young, with only the beginnings of laugh lines, and his blue-grey eyes have not yet clouded with age.

Anakin wants to sob. He wants to rage. Because this is the face he’s dreamed of killing. For twenty years, this face wreathed in flames is the one he wanted dead. Dead, for not loving him enough to put Anakin out of his misery when he had the chance. The hunched old-man colored in nothing but the red of his suit’s lenses was a poor substitute.

But the man’s arms are warm. His voice is soothing. He smells like sapir tea and regulation caff. The fingers that hold Anakin’s are gentle and the beard against his cheek is scratchy from days left untrimmed. When he leaves here, he’ll probably trim it. He’ll shower and make caff that Anakin will steal, and then he’ll shake his head ruefully before turning around to make the tea he’s already had in preparation. Maybe he’ll do paperwork. Maybe he’ll nap. It varies depending on the day and Anakin finds himself shaking at the thought.

Because it doesn’t make _sense_. He doesn’t _understand_. The galaxy is spinning and the Force is booming. He can’t tell up from down, and bonds long dead are thrumming with energy. He’s going to be sick. He has to be dreaming. This can’t be real and yet all he wants is to curl up into the embrace of the man who haunts his nightmares and beg him to finally end it.

“ _Please_.” He doesn’t know if he says it out loud or in his mind, but the dead man holds him close and quietly shushes him. 

Someone tugs on his arm, and he feels the familiar sensation of needles piercing his skin. He doesn’t want it, but he never does. There’s a brush against his mind and he doesn’t recoil. Master does it all the time. The trick is not to fight, even when he digs.

But the dead-man doesn’t dig. He brushes his presence over Anakin’s forehead as gently as a parent does their child. The world grows fuzzy and he thinks he hears the crisp accent say, “ _Sleep, Anakin. You’ll be okay,_ ” before his eyes begin to close and his head tilts to press against the dead-man’s chest. Someone injects him with something else, but he’s too far gone to care. 

He falls asleep to the sound of Obi-Wan’s heartbeat and the knowledge that he’ll still be gone when Anakin wakes up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, there you go! I hope you all liked it and go check out loosingletters' AU at jasontoddiefor on tumblr. He's great:)


	2. Obi-Wan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I caved. I couldn't leave it alone, so here is Obi-Wan's POV to the events in chapter 1. This poor guy needs a hug. 
> 
> Thank you so much to [loosingletters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loosingletters/pseuds/loosingletters) for letting me play in his sandbox! And also a big thank you to [Ro29](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ro29/pseuds/Ro29) for beta-ing this chapter!! 
> 
> Reference: 
> 
> _Italics_ : Thoughts/Emphasis  
>  _"Italics"_ : Telepathy/Emphatic Cursing
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

Anakin screams. 

It breaks through the cacophony of medics and machines until it’s the only sound in the room, and Obi-Wan never wants to hear it again. His cheeks are wet and crusty with thin tracks of salt; his fingers grasping for purchase through the flurry of others’ limbs. He thinks Kix tries to brush him aside, but it doesn’t work. He can’t move. The screams are rising in pitch, breaking with sobs. It tears something unspoken in his heart. 

“General, please!” And Obi-Wan can’t tell if Kix is talking to him or to Anakin, but it doesn’t matter. Neither one of them is paying attention. 

Anakin’s starlight presence is a supernova about to implode, and Obi-Wan closes his eyes in a desperate bid to stay standing. His fingers tangle in his padawan’s hair, uncaring of the sweat and grime. Things were fine only minutes ago. They’d won. The battle was over. How did everything go so wrong so quickly?

Anakin lets out another scream. It’s desperate and begging and Obi-Wan dives into their bond with a sickening need to make it stop. He meets little resistance. Anakin’s shields fall before him like wet tissue. Everything is on fire and Obi-Wan doesn’t understand because Anakin was _fine_. He was fine and laughing and happy and now he’s burning and Obi-Wan doesn’t know how to fix it. There’s nothing here. 

Their bond is solid. It’s solid and thick, cords wrapped together as tightly as they’ve ever been. Another dances beside it — smaller, newer, but just as golden. Ahsoka. It trembles slightly, fear leaking through. The last Obi-Wan had seen of her she’d been standing in the hallway, eyes wide in her little head. He hopes she’s not alone. He hopes she’s okay. He’s sorry he’s not with her, but he can only be in one place and Anakin _needs_ him. 

He travels further. Down the bond, deeper into the heat. It ripples, like a mirage in the desert. The golden cord tarnishes, blackens, then sparkles good as new. It’s as if someone overlaid a holo on top of another. The tight weave frays, ashen threads spread out between them like a dead limb. So many threads are covered in a layer of broken char — his, Ahsoka’s, Padme’s, any number of friends — and Obi-Wan can see the echoes of the flames that tore them all to shreds. Anakin’s mind is a battlefield; the bonds corpses. 

And then the heat recedes, char disappearing like phantoms of possibilities. Obi-Wan doesn’t know what to make of it. He reaches out, gentle and delicate so as not to cause any more pain, fingers brushing the threads. 

He’s on fire. 

Pain lances like lava through his veins. Deeper and deeper he’s pulled into Anakin’s mind, screams pounding his ears and smoke suffocating his lungs. It’s like a bomb has gone off and he’s at ground zero. Sobs with the broken quality of a child beg, “Stop, stop.” His heart claws at his throat and Obi-Wan wrenches himself from Anakin’s mind with a cry. 

Sound is the first thing he notices. Kix issuing orders, louder and louder in an effort to be heard over everyone else. Coric and Pax trying to find injuries and growing more and more frantic the less they find. It’s a mess of tubes and wires and machines none of them are sure are doing anything. He doesn’t even realize Bones is in his ear, demanding to know what he did until the man is literally spinning him around. 

Obi-Wan staggers. He stares in incomprehension at his own medic, the man’s face set in unsympathetic stone as he shouts, “General! _General!_ What did you do? What did you find?” 

His tongue is thick and cotton-dry. Words, incomprehensible and tacky, catch in his throat. What can he say? The clones aren’t Force-sensitive. They wouldn’t understand. He doesn’t understand. All he saw were possibilities and how do you fix something so intangible? 

He turns back to Anakin, fingers digging themselves deeper into the sweat-coated locks. Bones growls, but quickly gives him up as a dead end as he’s redirected to another IV. Obi-Wan wants to tell him to stop — that Anakin hates needles — but he doesn’t. He can’t speak; he can barely breathe. 

Something gentle and scolding whispers in the back of his mind. It tells him that this is hardly the proper response for a Jedi Master, and maybe it’s right. This is far from proper or correct or even helpful. He’s in the way and he knows it. But Obi-Wan is not nearly as perfect a Jedi as his apprentice seems to think, and in this moment he can’t even bring himself to give a damn. Anakin needs him. His head pushes into Obi-Wan’s palm, seeking whatever comfort he can get and Obi-Wan isn’t strong enough to deny him. 

Kix bullies in beside him, a penlight between his fingers as he bats away his brothers. “General Skywalker!” He cries, authoritative and frantic in turn. Obi-Wan keeps his fingers tight against Anakin’s curls. “General Skywalker, can you hear me? I need to know what hurts. I need to know where— _haar’chak!_ ” The penlight, metal and glass and gears, melts between gloved fingers and Kix tosses it aside to land in a distorted heap on the other side of the room. 

The medics stop. It would be silent if not for Anakin’s cries as the assembly stares at the destroyed hunk of metal. A heartbeat passes — thick and thumping in Obi-Wan’s chest as he tries to reconcile the sight. That’s—that’s not possible. It’s not—but the medics don’t care. They return to their mission with renewed vigor, not understanding what Anakin did and not caring to find out. 

Obi-Wan does. The Force swells. The air prickles with power. The hair on the back of his arms stands on end. It’s a wonder the medics can’t feel it. It’s a wonder the _galaxy_ doesn’t feel it.

A heart monitor beeps incessantly beside him, obnoxious and aggravating, and a diagnostic droid rattles off numbers that don’t make any sense even to the healers. Kix’s brow furrows with frustrated confusion and Bones has given up entirely, choosing instead to focus on what he sees rather than whatever nonsense the droid is detecting. 

It doesn’t make sense. His vitals are sound. There are no injuries. Physically, Anakin’s fine. 

But the Force isn’t physical and Obi-Wan sees the swirling mass of chaos that surrounds his padawan like sand stripping through flesh. It grows. Hot and destructive and monstrous, the Force batters around them, a storm threatening to wrench the ship from the sky, and building with each beat of Anakin’s heart. 

Obi-Wan leans in, his hand curling tighter around the crown of his padawan’s head as if it will stem the tide. It won’t. Anakin’s always had trouble with control and Obi-Wan’s always struggled to help him. He’s never been sure if he succeeded. A good master would have, but a good master would _also_ have trusted the medics to do their job. A good master would have waited outside. A good master would know how to fix this. 

Obi-Wan has never been a good master. 

And his efforts do nothing to help. 

Anakin screams and the Force screams with him. A table is sent crashing into the wall behind them, instruments scattering across the floor like confetti. 

_“Kriff!”_

_“Haar’chak!”_

Coric gives another shout as the heart machine lets out a painful shriek. It rises, piercing the air before crumpling in on itself, and the room is thrown into chaos. The pressure swells. Anakin’s back arches painfully. Metal groans as tables, lamps, and droids implode, the medics shouting as their instruments explode in their hands. 

Obi-Wan holds Anakin in a vice. He keeps one hand on his head and another on his arm as the medics scramble to keep the younger man still. It doesn’t work. The bed gives a furious shudder and he's sent flying. Obi-Wan barrels into the wall, back slamming against the plating with such force as to leave him breathless. 

He gasps, struggling to breathe against newly bruised ribs. The Force keeps him suspended against the wall, Kix and Pax on either side of him. They can barely move their heads. The other medics are scattered across the floor, the Force pressing them down no matter how much they struggle. 

It’s a nightmare. All they can do is watch. 

The Force is deafening, screaming and crying, and Obi-Wan can’t tell if it’s echoing Anakin or if Anakin is echoing it. He finds he doesn’t care. His eyes pulse with heat and Kix’s shine in the flickering light. Anakin begs. He begs in the unintelligible babble of a child crying for help, but none of them can move to do so. None of them would know what to do even if they could. 

Anakin’s writhes. Glass shatters. The door is blown clean off as the paneling warps around them, and there are shouts from the hallway that indicate this isn’t an isolated incident. Obi-Wan’s heart pounds as the overhead lights flicker — once, twice — and die, leaving only the emergency lights to see by. MD-1 and MD-2 are nothing more than scrap metal. 

Obi-Wan’s throat constricts as the pressure in the room builds. He’s never felt anything like this. He never wants to feel anything like this again. Coric and Bones both gag, and two other medics have already passed out. If this goes on any longer they might actually suffocate. Anakin may very well kill everyone in this room. 

He may kill everyone on this ship. 

Obi-Wan struggles to grasp the Force, but it rockets passed him in a tempest. He can’t hold it. It builds and builds and just as Obi-Wan is sure it’s going to puncture something vital it constricts. It whips through him painfully as he falls to his knees. Kix and Pax collapse in a heap beside him and more than one medic gasps for air. They struggle to their feet, moving to help their brothers who aren’t rising, but Obi-Wan only has eyes for Anakin. 

The boy is shaking. His screams have tapered into cries not because the agony is any less, but because he’s worn his throat raw and no longer has the energy for anything else. With trembling legs, Obi-Wan moves towards the dense Force cloud that surrounds his apprentice. It’s happened before, once or twice when Anakin was still a child new to manipulating the Force, though never to this magnitude. Never to such destruction. Back then, all it took was Obi-Wan’s hand on his head to sooth the storm. 

It didn’t work earlier. He doesn’t know why he thinks it’ll help now. He does it anyway. 

Obi-Wan’s fingers tangle through Anakin’s hair. It’s heavy and limp, curls plastered against his forehead. He looks so small on the stretcher, like a little boy again and not the heroic general he’s become. _Force_ , Obi-wan is so proud of him. He reaches for the bond, trying to swim through the chaos and bathe Anakin in that pride. 

_Calm,_ he thinks. Calm and trust and caring. Love in all the ways they never say aloud. 

He sends as much of it forward as he can, fingers slipping through the locks gently. It takes a second — one painful second where he fears Anakin might bat him away — before the boy arches back. He tilts his head, pressing it sharply into Obi-Wan’s palm as if begging for more and Obi-Wan is a selfish, horrible Jedi who can do naught but oblige. 

He moves his hand to cup the back of Anakin’s head. It’s warm, too warm, and a painful whimper escapes the boy’s lips as he lifts him up out of the agonizing arch he’s contorted himself into. Gently, so as not to aggravate any injuries Anakin may or may not have, Obi-Wan wraps his other arm around his chest, holding his apprentice in place. 

Anakin freezes. It lasts barely a few seconds, but Obi-Wan waits. If this doesn’t help, if Anakin doesn’t want this, he’ll stop. He’d do anything for this boy and he’s known that since he was twenty-five years old and grieving. 

The initial choice was never theirs, but Obi-Wan Kenobi has chosen Anakin Skywalker everyday since, and he will choose him everyday for the rest of his life without thought if that’s what it takes to keep him safe.   
  
Anakin relaxes. The deep knot that’s pitted itself inside Obi-Wan’s chest unfurls, just a little bit, as he lifts the boy off the stretcher and into his arms. Anakin isn’t heavy, not like he should be, but Obi-Wan sinks to his knees anyway. He settles his padawan in his lap, head flush against Obi-Wan’s heart as he holds him. The boy trembles, painful gasps coming from his lips as if he’s still trying to cry and doesn’t understand why there are no tears. 

There are tears. 

They etch tracks into Anakin’s pale cheeks, and Obi-Wan is sure he looks no different. His arms tighten. He enfolds the boy into an embrace as if it will shield him from whatever this is — whatever the Force has done. Obi-Wan’s never felt such hatred for something he loves so much, but he thinks the Force has earned his ire this time. He thinks Qui-Gon would agree. 

Anakin gasps again, more desperate this time. He’s struggling to breathe. He’s struggling to _breathe_. 

_No_. No, no, no, _no_. 

Obi-Wan isn’t a healer. Anakin needs Master Che, not battlefield first aid. He doesn’t know how to help, but every attempt to move away has Anakin burrowing further into his chest, long fingers digging into his tunic. Above him, the medics have caught on to the problem. They clamor through the mess to find something that will help, but all Obi-Wan can do is sit here and desperately try to release his own panic to a Force that won’t take it. 

“General,” Kix states frantically. His eyes bore into Obi-Wan’s from where he stands on his hands and knees looking for oxygen. “Check his airway. Is there something obstructing his airway?” 

There’s nothing, and Obi-Wan tells the medic this as calmly as he can. He doesn’t think they care much about professionalism right now, but best not to have them worry about dealing with the other commanding officer in their midst.

Kix nods sharply, turning to Bones with a fierceness only medics can accomplish. In a low tone, just loud enough for Obi-Wan to hear, he asks, “Internal?” 

Bones shakes his head quickly, frustration clear. “Nothing in the scans. He’s fine.” 

“Clearly not,” and Kix whips back around, fixing Obi-Wan with a stern glare. It’s every bit a reminder that no one outranks a medic. “He has to breathe, sir. Keep him breathing.” 

Obi-Wan isn’t sure how he’s supposed to go about doing that, but the medics are still searching for any form of oxygen that isn’t destroyed, and if they don’t find any—well. Anakin just has to breathe. He has to. There’s no reason why he can’t. No obstructions. No injuries. He’s suffocating on nothing. 

The air is there; Anakin just needs to know he can take it. 

_Please, Anakin. Just breathe. Breathe with me._

Why won’t he _breathe_? 

Why isn’t there a _reason_?

His palm cups the side of Anakin’s head as he pulls him closer, listening to the ragged gasps. Obi-Wan’s heart shudders. He presses his lips to Anakin’s ear and begs him. He begs as he hadn’t begged for Siri or Cerasi or Qui-Gon. At some point his eyes shut, but the all-encompassing weight of Anakin in his arms never fades.

“Breathe,” he whispers, pleading with Anakin, the Force, and the galaxy all in one. “Breathe with me, little one. You can do this. You can. Breathe. Please, Anakin, you have to breathe.” His hand strokes the boy’s hair, while the other rubs his back, hoping it’s enough.

Anakin chokes. He chokes, clawing for air that isn’t coming and Obi-Wan is suddenly struggling to hold him still. “Anakin? _Anakin!_ ” His body flails, eyes blow wide. He stares at Obi-Wan, unseeing, and it breaks his master’s heart all over again.

Frantic clamoring bleeds into Obi-Wan’s awareness as the medics’ search takes on a more urgent quality, but Obi-Wan is too busy trying to quell his own panic to pay heed to theirs. His fingers claw against Anakin’s head and he begs.

“ _Breathe._ ” His eyes sting. Why are they stinging? They burn and his throat aches and he buries his face in his child’s hair. “Anakin, please, you have to breathe.” He has to. He has to. Force take it, he has to. “Please, please. You have to breathe. Anakin. _Anakin_. Breathe. Listen to me. Anakin, _please_.”

The boy chokes again. His head lolls to the side. Obi-Wan’s world tunnels. “Anakin!” He shakes him. Whether that’s good practice or not he can’t remember. He doesn't care. “Please, little one. In, one, two, three. Hold.” Anakin doesn’t hold, but Obi-Wan says it anyway. “Out, one, two, three. Again. In…” he continues the mantra, despite Anakin’s disinterest. It helps him. If the Force won’t take his panic, then at least he can pretend at usefulness.

He’s not sure how long he does this before Kix reappears. Anakin’s lips have turned blue and that’s enough for him to know it’s too long. The medic falls to his knees beside them, an intact oxygen mask cupped in his hands. It’s beautiful. 

“General!” Kix states, perhaps louder than necessary, but the man is as out of sorts as the rest of them. Obi-Wan can forgive the noise. What’s harder is the flinch Anakin makes and Obi-Wan reflexively tightens his grip. 

Kix’s expression twists in apology, but there’s nothing apologetic in the force he uses to apply the mask. He slips it on quickly and efficiently, the pressurized oxygen pushing its way into Anakin’s lungs without sympathy. 

Anakin sags. His chest rises and falls in a cycle, and the room breathes a sigh of relief. The medics collapse in piles across the floor and Obi-Wan follows them. His shoulders slump as he cards his hand through Anakin’s hair. 

_He’s okay,_ Obi-Wan thinks. _He’s okay._

(He’s not okay. Obi-Wan knows this. They all know this. They don’t know what happened. They don’t know if it’ll happen again. But the screaming has stopped. The Force has calmed. He’s breathing. Oh _Force_ , he’s breathing.) 

Obi-Wan curls his body around his apprentice, holding him close and listening to the sound of regulated air. It sends a chill up his spine, but he shakes it away. 

_It’s temporary,_ he tells himself. Anakin will wake up and they’ll have no more need for oxygen masks or hospital rooms. 

A few of the medics get up, attempting to set the room to rights, to find IVs and monitors that might have survived. Obi-Wan pays attention to none of it. He’s too focused on Anakin. On the sound of his breathing, the feel of his hair, the warmth against his cheek. He doesn’t even realize he’s begun to talk. 

“I’m here, little one,” he breathes into Anakin’s ear. It’s too low for the medics to hear and that’s just how Obi-Wan wants it. “I’m here. You’re here. It’s alright. You’re going to be alright.” Words, half-baked and soothing, pass his lips as promises he doesn’t know he can keep, though he’ll try his damnedest anyway. 

He brushes a thumb softly across Anakin’s cheek, wiping away tears that have gathered at eyelashes. He doesn’t mean to startle him. He doesn’t mean to hurt him. But Anakin lurches at the change, eyes flying open, and he whimpers as sensitive pupils meet the light from the hallway. It’s a wonder it’s stayed on honestly. Obi-Wan almost wishes Anakin had destroyed that too if only to spare him this one extra pain. 

His hand moves to Anakin’s cheek, moving aside wet strands as he does so. Slowly, he tilts Anakin’s gaze away from the light. Confusion prickles the Force for a moment, wafting through the pain, and it spreads across Anakin’s face as if he can’t pick out where he is. As if he can’t pick out who’s holding him. 

Breath catches in his throat. Does Anakin not recognize it’s him? 

_Oh Anakin, what have you gotten us into now?_

Whatever it is, Obi-Wan knows he isn’t going to like it. He’s known it from the moment Anakin dropped to the ground. This just confirms it. 

There’s no time to think on it more as agony lances through the Force and Anakin spasms in his arms. Through the fog of the mask, Obi-Wan can just make out a thin mouth and a tiny bead of blood. He’s bitten through his lip. 

_Oh Anakin._

The fingers wrapped around his tunic grasp for purchase, as if he’s trying to move them up towards Obi-Wan’s neck. Anakin’s reaching for him and Obi-Wan obliges as he always does for this boy. Fingers slip from the sticky cheek and he wraps his hand around his brother’s. 

When did they get so big? When did Anakin’s hands stop fitting in his palm? 

The tips of Anakin’s fingers dance across his skin as if exploring the grooves — reacquainting himself with them. Obi-Wan lets him. He rubs his thumb over the knuckles of Anakin’s hand, soothing himself with the familiarity. There’s a burn from a frayed wire Anakin was so sure he could fix and little scars from too many repair jobs to name. Two thick ropes wind across the back of his hand from a time and story Anakin doesn’t like to talk about and Obi-Wan has never questioned. Calluses press into his own, reminders of days spent together. It’s warm, almost too much, but alive and active, and that’s all Obi-Wan can ask for. 

The prosthetic lies crumpled at his side. 

Anakin stares at him. He keeps staring as the medics find workable equipment and begin pricking him with IVs. Taking vitals. There’s no movement. None of the usual cursing. It’s as if they’re not even there. 

And Obi-Wan doesn’t look away. He holds his apprentice’s gaze with all the patience he can muster. It’s unnerving, but he does it, and he hopes Anakin finds whatever it is he’s looking for. He can’t tell. Anakin’s emotions are hidden within the tumultuous sea of the Force. 

“Hold him still, General,” Kix murmurs, and Obi-Wan strengthens his hold reflexively. He hadn’t even realized Anakin was shaking. 

He leans a little closer, beard grazing Anakin’s face. The boy curls in on him, eyes shutting tight enough to leave cracks. A whisper, half in his mind, half on Anakin’s lips, passes between them. 

_“Please.”_

Obi-Wan’s heart breaks. It’s the third time in however many minutes and he wants to ask how many times it can happen before he has no more heart left. But he doesn’t speak. He can’t speak. The fragments are lodged in his throat and the best he can do is shush the boy and hold him close. Feel the warmth of his body and smell the battle in his hair. Anakin’s always smelled of battle — of ozone and engine oil and the stars. 

Kix gently tugs Anakin’s arm away, inserting a line into the back of his hand. Normally, Anakin would whine. Normally, he would curse. 

He doesn’t do any of that, but Obi-Wan still tries to comfort him anyway. Anakin’s eyes flutter, pupils roving to catch a glimpse of his master in half-asleep desperation. 

Obi-Wan smiles. It’s the first one he’s made all day. 

Taking hold of their bond — bright and beautiful and unburnt — he brushes his presence gently over the edges. Just enough to reassure him —just enough to reassure them both. 

Lips kissing his ear, Obi-Wan says, “Sleep, Anakin. You’ll be okay.” And he means it. He’ll do anything, give up anything, to make it true.

Anakin’s head rolls to the side, landing firmly over Obi-Wan’s heart. The mask skews a bit, but it’s an easy fix. He’s breathing. He’s sleeping. He’s going to be okay. 

Obi-Wan closes his eyes. He inhales deeply, letting himself finally feel his own fatigue. The floor is hard and cold, but Anakin is a warm weight in his arms and that’s all that matters. Everything else is just details. 

_“You’ll be okay,”_ he promises down the golden cord. _“You’re safe. I’m here. Rest, Anakin.”_

_“I’ll be here when you wake up.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! I hope you all enjoyed and thanks again to Ro29 and loosingletters. You can find the rest of the MTTT AU in the above fic link, and at jasontoddiefor's tumblr tags here: [The MTTT AU](https://jasontoddiefor.tumblr.com/tagged/medical-trauma-time-travel-au)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you thought!
> 
> Stay safe!


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